Fiction, non-fiction, and poetry all fall under the realm of creative writing. The examples of these are myriad, but here's a minor sampling of a short story written for school.
Drift The boy dashed into a snow drift, taking a deep, exhilarating breath of winter air. The air was almost painful in its chill, but the boy did not mind. He started a meandering path past the boundaries of his yard, into the small crop of trees that peppered the fields. They were evergreens, still green, still enduring through the recent snowstorm.
The boy liked it out here, away from where he still lived, away from the feelings home brought. Here, out in the countryside, things were simple. Things were boiled down to the essentials. Find food, find shelter, and survive. If he didn’t, he would die.
The reminder that his life was no longer simple made the boy’s eyes burn until they fell upon the familiar stump where an unfamiliar man sat.
His blue eyes rounded, and he found himself saying, “Who are you?”
The man looked up briefly, his eyes the color of the evergreen needles. He had a salt and pepper beard, and was tall and gaunt with protruding cheekbones. “Just an old man,” he said.
“You live out here?” the boy asked.
The man smiled. “I live anywhere.”
“Really?” the boy sucked in an icy breath. It sounded...wonderful. Like freedom.
He swallowed past the longing in his throat, and found himself asking him, “Do you like it?”
A dry laugh made the boy shiver a little. It reminded him of the crackle of logs splitting on an open fireplace. “Not like I’ve gotta choice, kid,” he said. “I do what I gotta do.”
“Are you hungry?” the boy asked. He had brought some cheese and bread with him, in case he had wanted to stay away for a while. The man nodded and he took out his food bundled in a handkerchief, untying the knot. He sliced the cheese and bread with his knife, and offered the man some. “Here.”
The old man ate it hungrily, while the boy examined the ground by his feet. The boy started when he heard him ask, “Who embroidered that handkerchief?”
“My ma,” he said.
“Nice work, woman’s got a fine eye,” the man said. There was a few moments’ silence as the boy stared at the fabric, of a scene of a tiny, elaborate cross-stitch of a deer grazing by a mulberry bush. The man was right. “Why aren’t you inside?” asked the man, and the boy looked up at where he was pointing, at his home with its tiny chimney sending black smoke into the gray sky.
“Because…” the boy began, and his voice caught.
The man lowered his eyes, smiling gently. “‘S okay,” he said. He got up. “Thanks for the food, kid. Your ma must be worried about you. Sundown’s coming.” The boy knew the man was right. It was past three in the afternoon. “And your pa…”
“That’s not my pa,” the boy interrupted.
The man looked at the boy, surprisingly clear-eyed. “He good to you?”
The boy shut his eyes, exhaling. A few moments passed. “Yeah. He is.” He felt the familiar burn in his eyes, but it passed again, leaving him tired.
The man watched the smokestack for a few moments, then got up. “I gotta get along to someplace warm before dark,” he said. “You should too, kid.”
“Wait!” the boy said. The man paused. “You should stay the night, at least.” It was still cold enough to snow.
The man’s beard crinkled. “Your ma okay with that?”
“Of course,” he said.
A pause. “And the man in your home too?”
A longer pause, and the boy said with reluctance, “Yes. He’s good like that.”
“Good enough for me,” the man said, and held out his hand to the boy to help him back up. They headed to the small cabin, the boy’s home.
Drift
The boy dashed into a snow drift, taking a deep, exhilarating breath of winter air. The air was almost painful in its chill, but the boy did not mind. He started a meandering path past the boundaries of his yard, into the small crop of trees that peppered the fields. They were evergreens, still green, still enduring through the recent snowstorm.
The boy liked it out here, away from where he still lived, away from the feelings home brought. Here, out in the countryside, things were simple. Things were boiled down to the essentials. Find food, find shelter, and survive. If he didn’t, he would die.
The reminder that his life was no longer simple made the boy’s eyes burn until they fell upon the familiar stump where an unfamiliar man sat.
His blue eyes rounded, and he found himself saying, “Who are you?”
The man looked up briefly, his eyes the color of the evergreen needles. He had a salt and pepper beard, and was tall and gaunt with protruding cheekbones. “Just an old man,” he said.
“You live out here?” the boy asked.
The man smiled. “I live anywhere.”
“Really?” the boy sucked in an icy breath. It sounded...wonderful. Like freedom.
He swallowed past the longing in his throat, and found himself asking him, “Do you like it?”
A dry laugh made the boy shiver a little. It reminded him of the crackle of logs splitting on an open fireplace. “Not like I’ve gotta choice, kid,” he said. “I do what I gotta do.”
“Are you hungry?” the boy asked. He had brought some cheese and bread with him, in case he had wanted to stay away for a while. The man nodded and he took out his food bundled in a handkerchief, untying the knot. He sliced the cheese and bread with his knife, and offered the man some. “Here.”
The old man ate it hungrily, while the boy examined the ground by his feet. The boy started when he heard him ask, “Who embroidered that handkerchief?”
“My ma,” he said.
“Nice work, woman’s got a fine eye,” the man said. There was a few moments’ silence as the boy stared at the fabric, of a scene of a tiny, elaborate cross-stitch of a deer grazing by a mulberry bush. The man was right. “Why aren’t you inside?” asked the man, and the boy looked up at where he was pointing, at his home with its tiny chimney sending black smoke into the gray sky.
“Because…” the boy began, and his voice caught.
The man lowered his eyes, smiling gently. “‘S okay,” he said. He got up. “Thanks for the food, kid. Your ma must be worried about you. Sundown’s coming.” The boy knew the man was right. It was past three in the afternoon. “And your pa…”
“That’s not my pa,” the boy interrupted.
The man looked at the boy, surprisingly clear-eyed. “He good to you?”
The boy shut his eyes, exhaling. A few moments passed. “Yeah. He is.” He felt the familiar burn in his eyes, but it passed again, leaving him tired.
The man watched the smokestack for a few moments, then got up. “I gotta get along to someplace warm before dark,” he said. “You should too, kid.”
“Wait!” the boy said. The man paused. “You should stay the night, at least.” It was still cold enough to snow.
The man’s beard crinkled. “Your ma okay with that?”
“Of course,” he said.
A pause. “And the man in your home too?”
A longer pause, and the boy said with reluctance, “Yes. He’s good like that.”
“Good enough for me,” the man said, and held out his hand to the boy to help him back up. They headed to the small cabin, the boy’s home.